City of Ashes (The Mortal Instruments #2)(8)
Author: Cassandra Clare

“You did the right thing, Maryse,” said Luke.

She turned on him, eyes blazing. “Don’t patronize me, werewolf. If it weren’t for you—”

“Don’t yell at him!” Clary cut in, almost rising to her feet herself. “It’s your fault for believing Valentine in the first place—”

“You think I don’t know that?” There was a ragged edge to Maryse’s voice now. “Oh, the Clave made that point nicely when they questioned us—they had the Soul-Sword and they knew when we were lying, but they couldn’t make us talk—nothing could make us talk, until—”

“Until what?” It was Luke who spoke. “I’ve never known. I always wondered what they told you to make you turn on him.”

“Just the truth,” Maryse said, sounding suddenly tired. “That Valentine hadn’t died there in the Hall. He’d fled—left us there to die without him. He’d died later, we were told, burned to death in his house. The Inquisitor showed us his bones. Of course, that was another lie…” Her voice trailed off, and then she rallied again, her words crisp: “It was all coming apart by then, anyway. We were finally talking to one another, those of us in the Circle. Before the battle, Valentine had drawn me aside, told me that out of all the Circle, I was the one he trusted most, his closest lieutenant. When the Clave questioned us I found out he’d said the same thing to everyone.”

“Hell hath no fury,” Jace muttered, so quietly that only Clary heard him.

“He lied not just to the Clave but to us. He used our loyalty and our affection. Just as he did when he sent you to us,” Maryse said, looking directly at Jace now. “And now he’s back, and he has the Mortal Cup. He’s been planning all this for years, all along, all of it. I can’t afford to trust you, Jace. I’m sorry.”

Jace said nothing. His face was expressionless, but he’d gone paler as Maryse spoke, his new bruises standing out livid on his jaw and cheek.

“Then what?” Luke said. “What is it you expect him to do? Where is he supposed to go?”

Her eyes rested for a moment on Clary. “Why not to his sister?” she said. “Family—”

“Isabelle is Jace’s sister,” interrupted Clary. “Alec and Max are his brothers. What are you going to tell them? They’ll hate you forever if you throw Jace out of your house.”

Maryse’s eyes rested on her. “What do you know about it?”

“I know Alec and Isabelle,” said Clary. The thought of Valentine came, unwelcome; she pushed it away. “Family is more than blood. Valentine isn’t my father. Luke is. Just like Alec and Max and Isabelle are Jace’s family. If you try to tear him out of your family, you’ll leave a wound that won’t ever heal.”

Luke was looking at her with a sort of surprised respect. Something flickered in Maryse’s eyes—uncertainty?

“Clary,” Jace said softly. “Enough.” He sounded defeated. Clary turned on Maryse.

“What about the Sword?” she demanded.

Maryse looked at her for a moment with genuine puzzlement. “The Sword?”

“The Soul-Sword,” said Clary. “The one you can use to tell if a Shadowhunter is lying or not. You can use it on Jace.”

“That’s a good idea.” There was a spark of animation in Jace’s voice.

“Clary, you mean well, but you don’t know what the Sword entails,” Luke said. “The only one who can use it is the Inquisitor.”

Jace sat forward. “Then call on her. Call the Inquisitor. I want to end this.”

“No,” Luke said, but Maryse was looking at Jace.

“The Inquisitor,” she said reluctantly, “is already on her way—”

“Maryse.” Luke’s voice cracked. “Tell me you haven’t called her into this!”

“I didn’t! Did you think the Clave wouldn’t involve itself in this wild tale of Forsaken warriors and Portals and staged deaths? After what Hodge did? We’re all under investigation now, thanks to Valentine,” she finished, seeing Jace’s white and stunned expression. “The Inquisitor could put Jace in prison. She could strip his Marks. I thought it would be better…”

“If Jace were gone when she arrived,” said Luke. “No wonder you’ve been so eager to send him away.”

“Who is the Inquisitor?” Clary demanded. The word conjured up images of the Spanish Inquisition, of torture, the whip and the rack. “What does she do?”

“She investigates Shadowhunters for the Clave,” said Luke. “She ensures the Law hasn’t been broken by Nephilim. She investigated all the Circle members after the Uprising.”

“She cursed Hodge?” Jace said. “She sent you here?”

“She chose our exile and his punishment. She has no love for us, and hates your father.”

“I’m not leaving,” said Jace, still very pale. “What will she do to you if she gets here and I’m gone? She’ll think you conspired to hide me. She’ll punish you—you and Alec and Isabelle and Max.”

Maryse said nothing.

“Maryse, don’t be a fool,” Luke said. “She’ll blame you more if you let Jace go. Keeping him here and allowing the trial by Sword would be a sign of good faith.”

“Keeping Jace—you can’t be serious, Luke!” Clary said. She knew using the Sword had been her idea, but she was beginning to regret ever having brought it up. “She sounds awful.”

“But if Jace leaves,” said Luke, “he can never come back. He’ll never be a Shadowhunter again. Like it or not, the Inquisitor is the Law’s right hand. If Jace wants to stay a part of the Clave, he has to cooperate with her. He does have something on his side, something the members of the Circle did not have after the Uprising.”

“And what’s that?” Maryse asked.

Luke smiled faintly. “Unlike you,” he said, “Jace is telling the truth.”

Maryse took a hard breath, then turned to Jace. “Ultimately, it’s your decision,” she said. “If you want the trial, you can stay here until the Inquisitor comes.”

“I’ll stay,” Jace said. There was a firmness in his tone, devoid of anger, that surprised Clary. He seemed to be looking past Maryse, a light flickering in his eyes, as if of reflected fire. In that moment Clary couldn’t help but think that he looked very like his father.

4

THE CUCKOO IN THE NEST

“ORANGE JUICE, MOLASSES, EGGS—WEEKS PAST THEIR sell-by date, though—and something that looks kind of like lettuce.”

“Lettuce?” Clary peered over Simon’s shoulder into the fridge. “Oh. That’s some mozzarella.”

Simon shuddered and kicked Luke’s fridge door shut. “Order pizza?”

“I already did,” said Luke, coming into the kitchen with the cordless phone in hand. “One large veggie pie, three Cokes. And I called the hospital,” he added, hanging the phone up. “There’s been no change with Jocelyn.”

“Oh,” Clary said. She sat down at the wooden table in Luke’s kitchen. Usually Luke was pretty neat, but at the moment the table was covered in unopened mail and stacks of dirty plates. Luke’s green duffel hung across the back of a chair. She knew she should be helping with the cleaning up, but lately she just hadn’t had the energy. Luke’s kitchen was small and a little dingy at the best of times—he wasn’t much of a cook, as evidenced by the fact that the spice rack that hung over the old-fashioned gas stove was empty of spices. Instead, he used it to hold boxes of coffee and tea.

Simon sat down next to her as Luke cleared the dirty dishes off the table and dumped them into the sink. “Are you okay?” he asked in a low voice.

“I’m all right.” Clary managed a smile. “I didn’t expect my mom to wake up today, Simon. I have this feeling she’s—waiting for something.”

“Do you know what?”

“No. Just that something’s missing.” She looked up at Luke, but he was involved in vigorously scrubbing the plates clean in the sink. “Or someone.”

Simon looked quizzically at her, then shrugged. “So it sounds like the scene at the Institute was pretty intense.”

Clary shuddered. “Alec and Isabelle’s mom is scary.”

“What’s her name again?”

“May-ris,” said Clary, copying Luke’s pronunciation.

“It’s an old Shadowhunter name.” Luke dried his hands on a dishcloth.

“And Jace decided to stay there and deal with this Inquisitor person? He didn’t want to leave?” Simon said.

“It’s what he has to do if he ever wants to have a life as a Shadowhunter,” said Luke. “And being that—one of the Nephilim—means everything to him. I knew other Shadowhunters like him, back in Idris. If you took that away from him—”

The familiar buzz of the doorbell sounded. Luke tossed the dishcloth onto the counter. “I’ll be right back.”

As soon as he was out of the kitchen, Simon said, “It’s really weird thinking of Luke as someone who was once a Shadowhunter. Weirder than it is thinking of him as a werewolf.”

“Really? Why?”

Simon shrugged. “I’ve heard of werewolves before. They’re sort of a known element. So he turns into a wolf once a month, so what. But the Shadowhunter thing—they’re like a cult.”

“They’re not like a cult.”

“Sure they are. Shadowhunting is their whole lives. And they look down on everyone else. They call us mundanes. Like they’re not human beings. They’re not friends with ordinary people, they don’t go to the same places, they don’t know the same jokes, they think they’re above us.” Simon pulled one gangly leg up and twisted the frayed edge of the hole in the knee of his jeans. “I met another werewolf today.”

“Don’t tell me you were hanging out with Freaky Pete at the Hunter’s Moon.” There was an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, but she couldn’t have said exactly what was causing it. Probably free-floating stress.

“No. It was a girl,” Simon said. “About our age. Named Maia.”

“Maia?” Luke was back in the kitchen carrying a square white pizza box. He dropped it onto the table and Clary reached over to pop it open. The smell of hot dough, tomato sauce, and cheese reminded her how starved she was. She tore off a slice, not waiting for Luke to slide a plate across the table to her. He sat down with a grin, shaking his head.

“Maia’s one of the pack, right?” Simon asked, taking a slice himself.

Luke nodded. “Sure. She’s a good kid. I’ve had her over here a few times looking out for the bookstore while I’ve been at the hospital. She lets me pay her in books.”

Simon looked at Luke over his pizza. “Are you low on money?”

Luke shrugged. “Money’s never been important to me, and the pack looks after its own.”

Clary said, “My mom always said that when we ran low on money she’d sell one of my dad’s stocks. But since the guy I thought was my dad wasn’t my dad, and I doubt Valentine has any stocks—”

“Your mother was selling her jewelry off bit by bit,” said Luke. “Valentine had given her some of his family’s pieces, jewelry that had been with the Morgensterns for generations. Even a small piece would fetch a high price at auction.” He sighed. “Those are gone now—though Valentine may have recovered them from the wreckage of your old apartment.”

“Well, I hope it gave her some satisfaction, anyway,” Simon said. “Selling off his stuff like that.” He took a third piece of pizza. It was truly amazing, Clary thought, how much teenage boys were able to eat without ever gaining weight or making themselves sick.

“It must have been weird for you,” she said to Luke. “Seeing Maryse Lightwood like that, after such a long time.”

“Not precisely weird. Maryse isn’t that different now from how she was then—in fact, she’s more like herself than ever, if that makes sense.”

Clary thought it did. The way that Maryse Lightwood had looked recollected to her the slim dark girl in the photo Hodge had given her, the one with the haughty tilt to her chin. “How do you think she feels about you?” she asked. “Do you really think they hoped you were dead?”

Luke smiled. “Maybe not out of hatred, no, but it would have been more convenient and less messy for them if I had died, certainly. That I’m not just alive but am leading the downtown pack can’t be something they’d hoped for. It’s their job, after all, to keep the peace between Downworlders—and here I come, with a history with them and plenty of reason to want revenge. They’ll be worried I’m a wild card.”